The last look Of the scraggly trees Scraping their black fingernails Across the wistful shingles Of the buildings The last breath of moonlight, Whispering on the curtains Shall forever slumber In my iris The last smell of sheer power, Radiating off the skyscrapers And the smell of the cigarette from the man with the Rusty barbed wire hair Who sleeps on the doorsteps of Broadway The last blink of the artificial light of the streetlamps flickering On and off Like a dying firefly Moonlight under water Like the old man who has many ideas But is not brave enough to present them Oh New York, you will forever be caught In the tangled thicket Of past importance Dusty Gibbon, 12New Haven, CT
Poetry-Nighttime
The Sounds of the Night
The sound so beautiful Yet cold inside Cleela, Cleela, The crickets chirp. Ooo 0000 whoo whoo The owls’ almost Silent Yet shuddering sound. The cast of the Whispering wind Sends the dark Blanket The stillness The coolness of the night. Whisp win whisp win The night has come again. Morgan Harris Green, 8Madison, Wisconsin
The Answer of the Night
Your mother is calling you. It is time to go to bed. The night is calling out its cry of dark. “Come, come,” she calls to you. Again you do not answer. The clock strikes nine. The cat is rubbing at your ankles. You are silent. Your mother calls you again and again, But you still do not go. The peepers are singing, And the birds are calling the sound of night. The moon is already out and shining on the houses. You run into the yard. Owls start to hoot. A frog jumps out of the stream Breaking the stillness of the night. The dog barks in his kennel. The night is answering. You still do not go inside. Your mother calls one last time, And you finally go in to bed. Elizabeth Sughrue, 7Grasonville, Maryland
